by Adam Makos
But he couldn’t let Jesse quit.
Tom looked up. By the direction of their orbit, the others were signaling that a chopper was coming.
“Jesse, look,” Tom said, pointing upward. “They’re going clockwise.”
Jesse glanced up. “Yes, they are,” he said. His voice came labored, and his breathing was shallow.
Meanwhile, aboard the Leyte
Marty lowered his magazine and leaned forward from his seat in the ready room. He was on standby duty, suited up to launch in the event of a threat to the ship. His eyes settled on the teletype machine nearby. White letters trickled across the flickering green screen.
“Fellas, get over here!” Marty shouted to the others in the room. “Leyte’s got a pilot down.” The others crowded around as more words formed on the teletype.
ENS Brown, VF-32. Shot down.
Marty’s eyes blinked wide, and the others looked to one another in disbelief. More words appeared.
LtJG Hudner, VF-32. Intentional crash landing.
“What?” someone muttered.
“This can’t be right!” Marty said. The words kept trickling.
Both pilots awaiting evacuation.
Cevoli providing air cover.
Helicopter en route.
“Thank goodness!” someone said. Marty let out a sigh of relief. Cevoli’s Corsairs could keep a Chinese army at bay.
“They had me worried for a second there!” another pilot added.
Marty lit a cigarette and settled his eyes on the screen. The others remained in place, but their chattering slowed. Everyone watched and waited.
—
On the mountaintop, Tom’s arm shook along the Corsair’s canopy ledge. His muscles ached and his knees quivered. In the cockpit, Jesse clutched himself, shivering silently. His head drooped forward. His puffs of breath were getting thinner. Forty minutes had passed since his crash and twilight was settling across the pasture.
Beyond the peaks, Cevoli broke from orbit and led the others down toward Tom and Jesse. Tom glanced forward and Jesse slowly lifted his head. Cevoli’s wings stretched wider and wider as he descended.
Jesse had seen such a sight before. As a young sharecropper, he’d stood tall as a plane buzzed him in a cotton field, its pilot eager to see him run. But this plane was different. From a distance, the pilot began wagging his wings. He kept wagging them as he skimmed over a peak, over the pasture, and over Tom and Jesse.
Jesse raised his bundled hands in a feeble wave. Tom’s face sank. Wagging wings sometimes meant “Good luck” and sometimes “Goodbye.”
Hudson’s Corsair roared overhead next, its wings wagging. Jesse raised his hand. Then came Koenig and finally his wingman, McQueen.
Tom glanced over his shoulder and watched the planes shrink away toward the Chosin. The last pilot wagged his wings as long as he could.
“They’re still waving, Jesse,” Tom said.
When he turned back, Jesse’s chin had slumped to his chest. His eyes were closed. Tom could see his chest barely rising and falling.
—
With the planes gone, the wind wailed without competition. The clouds turned darker. Tom reached across his hip and felt his revolver. He debated the best course of action when the Chinese came: Should he shoot Jesse and then himself to avoid torture? Or take a chance as a POW?
He knew a POW camp would be brutal, but no one at that stage of the war knew that the communists routinely starved American POWs to death as a political statement.*2
Tom glanced at his watch. It was nearly four o’clock. Maybe the helicopter isn’t coming after all, he thought. In his hurry to aid Jesse, he had forgotten that helicopters lacked the performance to reach some of Korea’s mountains.
Jesse slumped heavily forward. Tom reached out and shook Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse raised his head and Tom released a long breath. Jesse’s eyes slowly opened. They were glassy and blank. Then they closed again. This can’t be happening, Tom thought. He wanted to slap his friend’s cheeks to bring the light back into his eyes.
A weak voice uttered Tom’s name.
“Yeah, Jesse?” Tom said.
With just his eyes, Jesse looked up at Tom. He drew a shallow breath. “Just tell Daisy how much I love her.”
Tom nodded. Jesse closed his eyes and slumped heavily again. His breathing became so shallow that his shoulders barely rose.
Tom lowered his head. The finality was setting in.
—
Whomp, whomp, whomp. A bass sound traveled on the wind and Tom’s eyes lifted to it. Whomp, whomp, whomp. The sound echoed across the pasture and grew sharper. Rotors were beating the air; an engine was whirring. Tom traced the sound ahead, behind a peak. He shook Jesse again, in the hope that he’d rally.
“Hey, buddy, hang in there!” Tom said. “The helicopter’s here—I’m going to go flag him down.”
Jesse’s eyelids lifted heavily. He barely nodded.
Tom stumbled through the snow and stood fifty yards ahead of Jesse’s plane. From the sound of it, the pilot was taking a roundabout approach to the mountaintop, not the obvious flight path behind Tom and Jesse, the one the enemy would expect.
In a furious burst of noise, the helicopter banked between the peaks in front of Tom, its blades whirling. The chopper was a bug-like HO3S. Tom pulled a short flare from his life vest, uncapped the top, and pulled a string. Red smoke puffed then spouted into a plume. Tom waved the smoking flare over his head. The smoke streamed toward the helicopter and revealed the wind’s direction.
The helicopter pilot turned the glass bubble nose toward Tom and hovered closer. A circle of snow blasted outward and Tom shielded his face. Fifty yards away the craft lowered until all three tires had sunk into the white. The helicopter pilot looked up from his controls and paused at the sight of a pilot holding a flare with two crashed Corsairs behind him.
The helicopter’s rotors slowed and the blades took shape. The pilot kept his engine running for fear that it wouldn’t start up again at the mountainous altitude.
Tom tossed the flare aside. A door swung open from the right side of the helicopter and a short, stocky pilot jumped into the snow. The man wore a hip-length parka, paratrooper boots, and a black knit cap. Tom ran to greet him. Next to the cockpit, Tom stopped short with surprise.
The pilot’s cheeks were balled thick against the cold. He was Lieutenant Charlie Ward, the jovial Alabamian who had once joked to Tom and Jesse that he didn’t know the meaning of “fear” because he didn’t understand big words. Over the engine, Ward shouted a one-word greeting: “Hi!”
Tom pointed to Jesse’s plane and shouted, “We’ve got a pilot pinned inside and a fire in the nose. You have the ax?”
Ward nodded and slid open a door behind the cockpit. He handed an ax to Tom and grabbed a fire extinguisher for himself. The duo sprinted for the Corsair.
Tom hopped onto the wing. He glanced back and saw Ward stopped in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the pilot in the cockpit.
“Is that Jesse Brown?” Ward shouted.
“Yeah.”
“Aww, shit.”
Tom climbed to the cockpit and glanced inside. Jesse appeared unconscious; his breath had stopped puffing. Tom clutched the canopy ledge with his left hand, and with his right he choked down on the ax almost to the bottom. Tom’s eyes focused on the outer fuselage, where the metal bulged in and pinned Jesse’s knee. With a sidearm swipe, he hauled the ax back, then swung it forward.
Clang!
The steel blade skipped from the metal. Tom leaned and looked. The blade had barely made a dent. In a frenzy, Tom swung the ax again and again and again. Clang after clang sounded. The ax wasn’t cutting, and worse, Jesse hadn’t flinched.
More leverage! Tom thought. He lowered himself to the wing and raised the ax high over his head. Pain rippled up his back. Tom clenched his teeth and slammed the ax down against the fuselage. Clang! Tom’s feet slid from under him and he slammed down onto the frozen wing. From his side, he
glanced up to where the blow had landed. The ax had barely dented the frozen metal. Tom pounded the wing with his fists.
Ward reached to help Tom up. Instead of a hand, Tom handed him the ax. Having flown Corsairs during WWII, Ward climbed quickly to the cockpit. He leaned in to look Jesse in the face. “Hey, Mississippi—you hang in there, okay?” he said. “Hey, buddy?”
Jesse didn’t stir.
In an outpouring of angst, Ward swung the ax blade against the Corsair again and again, but his frenzied blows had the same effect—barely a dent.
Ahead of the wing, Tom paced circles on the snow. Ward came down and grabbed Tom’s shoulder to stop him.
“We need a cutting torch,” Tom said. “They must have one at Hagaru!”
Ward shook his head and pointed a thumb back toward Jesse. “Jesse ain’t moving. I don’t want to admit it, but I think he’s gone.”
Tom looked away. He shook his head in denial.
Ward scanned their surroundings. The peaks had turned inky blue; soon they’d be black with night. “We gotta go,” Ward said. “I don’t have instruments for night flying.” He looked Tom in the eyes. “You coming or staying?”
Tom glanced up at Jesse, slumped in the cockpit. If Jesse had been mumbling or even breathing, Tom’s decision would have been easy. He’d have stayed.
“Decide quickly,” Ward said. “But remember—you stay here, you freeze to death.”
He hustled toward his helicopter.
From the ground, Tom looked up to the cockpit. “Jesse, we don’t have the right tools to free you!” he shouted to his motionless friend. “We’re going to go and get some equipment. Don’t worry—we’ll be back for you!” But Jesse didn’t stir.
Tom turned and followed Ward’s footsteps to the helicopter. He opened the door to the fuselage, rolled inside, then shut the door and slumped against a bulkhead.
Up front, Ward glanced at Jesse through the glass and mumbled a quick prayer. He turned in his seat. “Ready?” he shouted to Tom over the whining engine. Tom didn’t reply. He had crawled to the right and pressed his face against the window.
The helicopter lifted off—one wheel, then two, then three. Tom gazed down and saw Jesse still slumped in the twisted cockpit. His eyes remained locked on his friend as the helicopter nosed forward and flew over the wrecked Corsairs.
Ward guided the machine out of the pasture the same way Jesse and Tom had entered, through the opening in the peaks. He then pushed the control stick forward and flew down the mountainside to pick up speed. He glanced through the glass at his feet and his eyes went wide.
A column of White Jackets were climbing the slope. They ducked and held on to their hats as the helicopter’s three tires buzzed over them. Ward tucked his neck and braced for the ping of bullets on metal. But no such sounds came. Ward slowly raised his head and his face loosened with relief. He’d realize later why the Chinese had held their fire—they had probably been afraid to draw more Corsairs.
Ward turned in his seat to see if Tom had seen the enemy troops, too. But Tom was leaning against the bulkhead, his arms wrapped around his chest, his eyes staring at his boots.
Ward thought about telling Tom what he’d just missed but thought better of it.
The fighter pilot behind him had already seen enough.
* * *
*1 Devil Cat pilot Al Graselli and Black Sheep flight leader Lyle Bradley remember hearing Tom on the radio and being impressed with his composure. Lyle and his fellow Black Sheep would later compose and sign a letter testifying to Tom’s courage, and they’d send it up the chain of command.
*2 For Americans held prisoner by the Chinese and the North Koreans, that winter would be known as “the starvation months,” when more POWs died than at any other time. Overall, 38 percent of American prisoners died during the Korean War. In comparison, 34 percent died in Japanese camps during WWII, 14 percent died in North Vietnamese camps during Vietnam, and 4 percent died in German/Italian camps during WWII.
CHAPTER 39
FINALITY
Forty minutes later
Twelve miles south of Hagaru
IN NEAR DARKNESS, the helicopter touched down and a blast of snow shook the neighboring tents. The rotors slowed, then stopped. Crewmen emerged in heavy coats and tied down the blades. Inside the craft, Ward removed his earphones and shouted to Tom, “All clear!”
Tom slid the door open and winced at the bitter wind. A winter storm was swallowing any glimpse of the darkened sky.
A sea of pyramid tents surrounded the helicopter landing pad on three sides. There was no control tower, only a Marine radioman stomping around a jeep to keep his feet warm. Small arms fire sounded from hills to the right and left. Now and then a star shell flashed against the dark clouds.
This was Koto-ri, an American supply base below Hagaru, at the end of the valley. Far fewer Chinese were surrounding Koto-ri, and the base’s four-thousand-man garrison had repelled the enemy’s only attack so far.
Ward led Tom into the sea of tents. The tents fluttered in the wind like partially collapsed parachutes. Bundled Marines ducked inside and out. As he limped through the snow, Tom stared at the ground. We left Jesse out there in this, he thought.
Tom followed Ward into a long tent lit by Coleman lanterns. A wisp of warmth brushed Tom’s face but he could still see his breath. The tent was crowded. More than a hundred fighting men were standing, eating from tins. Most were Marines, many were army, and a few wore the green berets of the British Royal Marine Commandos.
Ward approached a table where supply clerks dumped boxes of rations from a crate. He took a box for himself and offered one to Tom, who shook his head. Ward pointed to steaming cups of coffee but Tom declined those, too. Ward shrugged.
In the center of the tent, Ward found some space. He ate from a tin while Tom fiddled with his gloves, his eyes intense. “If we find a torch, can we go back first thing in the morning?” he asked.
Ward’s face scrunched with frustration. “There’s not a piece of equipment anywhere on this peninsula that could get Jesse out,” he said. “You’d have to dismantle the damned plane.”
Tom nodded, but his eyes stayed intense.
Ward leaned closer and his voice fell to a whisper. “Besides, these fellas are goin’ the other direction,” he said, gesturing to the nearby men. “Word is, once our troops in Hagaru regain their strength, they’re fightin’ here, then everyone’s bugging out together.”
Tom nodded reluctantly.
Between bites, the nearby Marines and soldiers eyed Tom with curiosity. His tan flight suit was dark up to the knees, wet from the snow. He still wore his helmet and he wasn’t eating, as if he were itching to leave. Finally, a young Marine asked, “Sir, how’d you wind up in this mess?” The other Marines turned to Tom with anticipation.
“Crashed my plane up in the mountains,” Tom said somberly. He motioned to Ward. “He came and rescued me.” Ward shrugged and kept eating. For him, it was just another mission in a dangerous line of duty. The day before, his buddy and fellow chopper pilot Major Robert Longstaff had been killed attempting a similar rescue. As Longstaff hovered down toward the Marine column, a Chinese sniper had shot him between the eyes.
“Well, you’re pretty safe here,” the Marine assured Tom. The others nodded.
“A word of advice, though,” the Marine added. “Avoid using the latrines after dark. It’s like the Chinese got ’em zeroed in—the crapper’s always the first thing to get hit!”
Ward laughed with the Marines.
Tom forced a smile.
—
By flashlight, a Marine led Tom and Ward to a small tent with a radio jeep parked outside. Tom and Ward ducked inside the tent. In sleeping bags, eight Marines slept on a dirt floor, helmets and rifles at their sides. Ward laid out his sleeping bag, the one he carried in his helicopter. Tom flapped up his fur collar and stretched out on the ground. He rested his helmeted head on the dirt.
“You sure we can’t hunt you d
own a blanket somewhere?” Ward whispered.
Tom shook his head.
As he lay there, he kneaded his fingers to encourage circulation. The wind flapped the canvas above. Near the entrance of the tent, a flashlight clicked on and a young Marine slid from his sleeping bag. The bobbing light approached Tom. The Marine crouched with a sleeping bag draped in his arms.
“Sir, you’ll need this.” He set the bag beside Tom.
“I can’t take your bag,” Tom said.
“Sir, you’ll need it a lot more than I will,” the Marine said with a grin. “Besides, I’m on jeep duty tonight.” He explained that every twenty minutes, he’d need to start the jeep’s engine to pump electricity through the radio to keep it functioning.
“I’d take it,” Ward muttered.
Tom reluctantly accepted the bag and thanked the Marine.
“Just give it back in the morning,” the Marine said. “I don’t sleep good at night, anyways.”
Tom spread the bag and climbed inside. He pulled the edges around his face.
“Charlie,” Tom whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming to get me.”
Charlie paused. “You did good yourself, Tom.”
“No,” Tom said with resignation. “I’m gonna get court-martialed when I get back.”
Ward rolled over. “Nahh,” he muttered.
Tom stared at the ceiling. Outside, the wind was howling.
Three days later, December 7, 1950
A deckhand steered the Skyraider to a halt at the front of the flight deck of the USS Leyte. Other crewmen swarmed the plane, sliding chocks around the tires, and one darted to the right side of the fuselage and opened a small door. A pair of boots descended to the deck. They didn’t belong to the pilot—he remained high in the cockpit, waiting for the engine to fully stop.
The deckhand steered Tom Hudner past the plane’s tail. Tom paused and gazed across the empty rear deck. The early morning sun swept the wood and the deck crew scurried to reset the cables.